


Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul?

by Someonewhosfunny



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Flashbacks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Someonewhosfunny/pseuds/Someonewhosfunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Real Madrid game is on in the bar and Fernando is feeling sorry for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul?

**Author's Note:**

> Titled taken from "Young and Beautiful" by Lana Del Rey.  
> A few people said they would like to see more in this fandom, so I decided to give it a go! Thank you for reading and feel free to leave a comment!

I was walking down the dimly lit street, hands stuffed deeply into the pockets of my sleek black coat, trying to keep a low profile. I pulled a grey beanie down to my eyebrows and a scarf from the bottom of my closet was wrapped around my neck and face. Only my nose and eyes peaked out, and I hoped the darkness was enough to conceal those features. I just wanted to be another wanderer tonight. A man walking through London on a snowy night.

My eyes were trained down at the white accumulating on the stony walk, and small, delicate flakes clung to my eyelashes. The cold wind on my face made my eyes tear (or had they been watery the whole time), but I had to keep going. I was trying to out run my thoughts.

As distant as I was from the outside world, I wasn’t able to keep them out of my head for very long. Despite my layers, I could faintly hear the rumbling of people in the pubs I passed. Bright lights shone through the paned windows and threw shadows onto the stone walk, but they were dim compared to the pitch lights I was so accustomed to. It was easy enough to ignore them, to keep my eyes trained forward and convince myself to keep moving, keep running from my problems.  

A name called from inside the pub caught my attention and I cursed the powers that be for this cruel twist of fate and myself for being so hypersensitive to everything related to you.

It was a man’s voice who spoke it, your name, in a thick cockney accent. It sounded wrong on his tongue. Foreign. All the syllables were pronounced incorrectly. Then I heard your team’s name and I knew I was hooked. I was going into the pub whether I wanted to or not. (I really, really did not). Determination had taken root in my feet and I was being brought closer and closer to you (in the only way I could be close to you at the moment).

The bartender sent me a look as I walked in, but I was completely mesmerized by the TV hanging on the wall. It was you, close up on the screen, screaming to your teammates with sweat dampening your short hair. You were playing your heart out (I wasn’t surprised. Passionately was the only way you knew how to operate) in the famous white that you represented with such pride. The captain’s armband was fitted around your bicep and I felt a swelling of pride despite myself. (I shouldn’t be this proud of a _madridista_ , but it was _you_ and no accomplishment, even of my own teammates, could ever make me feel as proud as I did when I saw you succeed.)

I remembered when it was the two of us playing out there like that, the fire ignited under us both as we fought for our country. (And it sounded a lot like war, but the Euro 2012 wasn’t far from it in reality, because we were ready to bleed for our flag, ready to ruthlessly destroy all opposition).

That pitch had been your stage, Sergio. I was fighting for minutes, fighting for possession, fighting desperately to prove that I had not slipped as much as everyone said I did (maybe they were right). But you? You were effortless, like a burning hot star across the sky of the football world. And when we won, I couldn’t help but smile despite the nagging feeling of: _you did nothing for your country. They won this without you_. I couldn’t help but celebrate with the rest of you, showering in champagne and pride. Many said it was the Golden Boot that made my mood so bright, the award I’ve won many times, but one that always stings a bit to see sitting on my dresser every day. _You won because they never play you. You won because of a few lucky goals and the mistakes of others._ _You don’t deserve this award and the world agrees_. No, it was not the embarrassment of an award that made the Euro for me. It was you. Your smile. The infectious joy spread across your face. When you held me close and whispered, _we did it, Fer_. That’s what made me smile. Because somehow, I’d done it. I shut the critiques up, if only for a minute, and all because of you. Of the strength that you gifted to me. I was grateful for that really. I always will be.  

I turned my eyes back to the screen then as my mind returned to the London pub, miles away from the stadium of the Euro. I watched the dance of players of the pitch a thousand miles away and allowed myself, if only for a second, to appreciate the beauty of the game.

_You deserve all the success in the world_ , I thought, _all the prosperity life can give_. You’re one of the best defenders on Real Madrid (one of the best in Spain and if I had to cast my vote, I’d say you were the best in the whole world). The sheer expertise of your performance brought chills to my spine. You are the most important player on your team, definitely the most stunning (Cristiano be damned). Few captains in the world ( _vice_ -captain, you always corrected) have the passion that you do, the charisma that has every player from the pitch to the bench mesmerized by your consuming desire to win.  And if the world could agree on one thing (not peace treaties or economic policy), it would be the winning instinct in you. You are a winner in the truest form. Born to steal trophies. The league. The Copa del Rey. The World Cup. The Euro. You are a vision of success. A king among your white knights.

And you keep the finest court.

(I am grateful every day that I can call you mine. That I matter to the most important man in all of Spain).

I shook my head then, willing my thoughts to avoid the feeling creeping up again. The feeling of inadequacy. I didn’t know why it came so strongly; I knew I wasn’t the strongest, most resilient person (No, Sergio. That was you.), but it seemed these days I couldn’t stop the feeling from suffocating me.

(I’d never been claustrophobic, but I needed to get out of that pub. I needed the cold air of London to erase the thoughts from my mind).  

No matter how stressed I got about the league and my very obvious lack of goals, or the Europa League final and my future at the club, my biggest worry was you. I wouldn’t even bat any eye if I lost my career (if I lost my entire world), if I could somehow keep you. (But I couldn’t. You were football and without it, I was without you. No question about that.)

Because without football, how could you still love me? Hell, how could you love me now? At 29 years old, I have nothing more to give, they all say it. I’m washed up, worn out. I’ve won my trophies. I’ve struggled and was carried by my team to collect Championship League titles and FA Cups. I’d been present as my country snagged three trophies in a row (I almost didn’t make it to the last one), but I didn’t make the difference I should have (didn’t even get the chance to). I had experienced glory, but my time was done. (I wished it wasn’t. I’d give anything to keep playing. Keep fighting. Keep winning. Keeping doing what I love. I’d give my soul and my heart to never have to stop).

I’ve watched you from the TV, the bench. I’ve seen all that you can achieve, all the fight you still have in you, and I can’t hold you back just because I’m done, because a few surgeries didn’t go well and the press decided I was theirs to rip apart.

I’d had everything I could’ve ever dreamed. I had the entire universe in front of me (I conquered it with you), but I will have to learn to let go of it all (let go of me, my soul, because despite everything, a piece of that will always lie in football).

Your time is not done. You’ll start every game on the club and national front for years to come. You’ll steal the spot light at the World Cup and I’ll be lucky to have a seat at the game.

And as I tromped through the London streets again, I felt my eyes watering, because it wasn’t supposed to end like this. I wasn’t supposed to go out like this. I was a winner. I was you. We were kings together. I was fire too, simmering and quietly dangerous, with a spirit that it seemed no one could extinguish (But oh were they wrong). Now I was broken. Trampled. Ruined. And angry. _This is ridiculous_ , I thought. _I’m not a petulant child. I’m not supposed to be this torn up_. But I always knew I would crumble at the first sign of trouble. From the day my talented feet failed to produce like they used to, I knew this was where my fate was headed.  

So I called you. And I swear I’ve never been impulsive in my life, but I needed to tell you. I was desperate and done, and you needed to drop me, leave me, before I dragged you down, too.

I hit the buttons on my phone with ease (I had memorized your number years ago and you never had the need to change it, even a decade later). It went straight to voicemail (of course it did. You were out there playing your hardest), but I had to say the words before I lost my nerve (But what I really need to lose was this misplaced sense of hopelessness clouding my judgment).

“Sergio. Listen...”

I snapped the phone when I had finished and continue to drown in self pity, dwell in doubt. With my confidence shattered (it had been that way for so long), I shut out the world. I hated myself for being weak, but I couldn’t remember the last time I was actually strong. I went home and locked myself away in the night.

If only I had stayed at the pub.

If I had, I would’ve known the outcome of that game, realized that it wasn’t all glory and triumph for you either. I would’ve seen that you blew the semi final again. I would’ve seen that you cried in front of the entire arena, cried on international television, because you felt every ache in my tired body too familiarly. Feelings of inadequacy, failure, guilty, and accountability also pumped through _your_ veins. You were fed up, too. (And I was too caught to realize then that everyone was sometimes.)

You were shattered, ruined. Nothing was more important to you than winning, and not out of fear like me or drive like Cristiano, but out of loyalty. The feeling that you owed it to your club, to your fans, to win. And in your mind you had failed.

If I had stayed up to answer the phone that night, maybe I would’ve realized a lot sooner that _yes_ , you _will_ still love me when I’m no longer making the first team. You would still love me even if I wasn’t scoring any goals, because you were just a man, not the newspapers or the critiques. You were just a man who fell in love with me. Not my feet or my goal tally. Not my records or titles. Me.

But in that moment, on that night, all I knew was doubt. And doubt would ruin everything, run like deep, infectious red through your pristine white jersey.

I ruined everything that night.  

_I'm sorry._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t really think Fernando is this hopeless (not by a long shot) and this does not reflect my personal beliefs about his career, but everyone gets pessimistic sometimes. And I don’t know if this is such a stretch of that pessimism.  
> Also, the game I’m referring to in this is the second game in the Borussia Dortmund v Real Madrid 2013 Championship League semi final.  
> Also, this was inspired by this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_QkI1cwTFI&feature=youtu.be It's one of the best fan videos I've seen!


End file.
